


harmony and divergence

by glukupikron



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Additional Tags to Be Added, M/M, One Shot Collection, PTSD sure is a bitch, Recreational Drug Use, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glukupikron/pseuds/glukupikron
Summary: A collection of prompt fills from Tumblr! A variety of ships! Chapter titles will have the pairing for easy navigation, and there are content warnings at the beginning of each chapter.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Toki Wartooth, Melmord Fjordslorn/Amber (Metalocalypse), Nathan Explosion/Magnus Hammersmith
Comments: 15
Kudos: 17





	1. breathe in [Magnus/Nathan]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "A kiss that lasts so long they are sharing each other’s breaths." - Magnus/Nathan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for this chapter: alcohol & recreational drug use (weed)

The night’s a wash. Nathan’s apartment is a mess, the whole day earlier spent cleaning up after the kitchen sink had clogged and overflowed, his roommate at work, and now Magnus is here, a one-liter bottle of Coke in hand that he drinks directly from, and then passes to Nathan with a conspiratorial grin.

“It’s like twenty-five percent rum,” Magnus says, “but the cops don’t bother you if you’re just walking down the street carrying around a bottle of Coke,” and when Nathan takes a slug of his own, he thinks he’d probably put it at more like forty percent. But it’s good, and it’s slightly chilled from the night air, and after the day he’s had, it’s a lot better than the two sad room temperature beers he’d had waiting for him on the counter.

“Thanks,” Nathan says, and Magnus elbows him gently and takes the bottle back.

“No problem, buddy.”

They pass it back and forth, and Nathan stumbles through regaling Magnus with the events of the afternoon, the thin layer of water that had accumulated on the tile floor and how the trash bag they’d shoved all their ruined stuff into had split and spilled reeking garbage everywhere after they thought they’d finally finished cleaning up.

“Sounds rough, buddy. Lucky for you, I’ve got something else to help take the edge off,” Magnus says. He pulls something out of his pocket and waggles it in front of Nathan’s face.

“Uh,” Nathan says, and when he doesn’t say anything else for several seconds, Magnus tilts his head slightly.

“Y’ever seen a joint before?” Magnus says, laughing. “You look like someone who had a healthy appreciation for weed in high school.”

“I dropped out.”

“Before you could smoke any weed?”

“I didn’t, uh, get a chance to. Not really, uh, anyone who wanted to share.”

“A shame. I’ll share, then,” he says, and pulls out his lighter.

He takes a hit, and then presses the joint into Nathan’s palm and says, “It’s just like a cigarette.” Nathan doesn’t want to admit he hasn’t really smoked any of those, either, and doesn’t know what to do. He tries to pull the smoke in like he’s seen in the movies, but the harshness catches him off guard and he doesn’t get much into his lungs before he’s hacking, eyes wet and blinking, and Magnus laughs at him, smacking his back with a bunched fist.

“Easy, big guy,” he says, and then, “You ever actually smoked before?”

Nathan shakes his head and winces, coughing once more against the tightness in his chest.

“Don’t worry about it,” Magnus says, and takes another pull. Nathan is gratified to see that this time Magnus lets out a cough himself, and that’s a little less embarrassing, then, if this guy who’s been smoking for years still has trouble with weed. He watches as Magnus takes another hit, tries to follow how Magnus pulls the smoke in with his chest and then hold it there, before exhaling into the night air.

“Probably should’ve started you on something a little nicer,” Magnus says. “Didn’t know you were a novice. Should’ve brought the good California weed for ya. This cheap shit burns up too fast.”

Nathan says, “Yeah,” and then feels like an idiot, because he knows, and Magnus knows, that he has no idea what he’s talking about. But, well, he’s heard California has good weed, from TV and movies and people on his football team (though they never actually had any, at least not that they would share with him) and that must count for something.

“Try again,” Magnus says, offering him the joint. The sharp grey smoke makes Nathan’s nose twinge, but he takes it from Magnus. He’s not about to make a fool of himself, not in front of this guy, who’s got some awesome ideas about music and death metal and incredible taste in grindhouse movies and appreciates it when Nathan doesn’t want to talk–he doesn’t say, “Awfully quiet, aren’t you?” or pressure Nathan into answering. Instead, he fills the silences with his own words, long, rambling diatribes on the state of the thrash scene, or the time he got ripped off at some record store, or why it’s a shame it’s illegal in Florida to have an alligator as a pet without a permit.

Friends are hard to come by for Nathan. Always have been. He just doesn’t mesh well with most people. He’s still trying to figure out if that’s a “him” thing or a “them” thing, but for now he’s got Magnus, and maybe this Skwisgaar guy (though they’re still feeling things out, the companionable silence the two of them can sit in, Nathan writing his lyric ideas down in a notebook while Skwisgaar plucks quietly on his guitar, is surprisingly comfortable).

And, sure, it’s only been a couple weeks, and most of those weeks have been getting drunk and listening to music and enthusiastically batting around ideas about how to make the “most brutal music ever,” but there’s something there, and Nathan doesn’t want to let go of it.

So he takes the joint, and he takes another pull, and it hurts even worse the second time around. The smoke hits the back of his throat in such a way that it triggers his gag reflex, and before he can stop himself, there’s a ragged retching sound working its way up his chest and out of his mouth.

Nothing comes up, thankfully, but he’s pretty sure he saw Magnus lean slightly away, just in case.

When he looks up, Magnus is watching him with that little glimmer of amusement in his eye, the one that Nathan hasn’t quite learned to parse yet. It could be mockery. It could be fondness. Maybe it’s both.

“I’ve got an idea,” Magnus says, and he reaches for Nathan’s hand, easing the joint out from where it’s been pinched between his fingers. Nathan lets him have it.

“It’s a little, hm… intimate,” Magnus says. “But we’ve been swapping spit all night, haven’t we?” He sloshes the half-empty Coke bottle at Nathan.

“Uh, what?” Nathan says.

“Don’t worry about it. This’ll take away some of the harshness. Open up,” Magnus says, and takes a drag from the joint. Nathan doesn’t really know what Magnus means by “open up,” but this time, instead of drawing it down into his lungs, Nathan notes, Magnus pulls it in and then holds his breath.

Magnus’ hand grasps his jaw then, and Nathan jolts. The light pressure of Magnus’ fingertips along his chin and cheeks makes something in Nathan’s chest spark. And then Magnus’ mouth is on his, or almost, their lips nearly brushing, and Nathan feels Magnus exhale. The taste of the smoke and Magnus’ breath mix on Nathan’s tongue, and the spark flares into something else, some new, unfamiliar feeling that Nathan can’t really find it in himself to hate.

“You gotta breathe in when I do that, buddy,” Magnus says, pulling away. “Otherwise half of it just goes up in the air.”

He looks at Nathan, considering, and then offers, “Try again?”

Nathan pauses. It wasn’t really a kiss, and it was Magnus’ idea, and that hot, fuzzy feeling is probably just the alcohol. It was a lot, and they had drunk it pretty fast. And if he this is what he has to do to get high for the first time, well. There are worse things.

He nods and Magnus grins. Magnus takes another pull from the joint, and leans in. He doesn’t need to, but he rests his fingers on Nathan’s jaw again, and this time his grip is lighter, more of the pads of his fingers than the tips, and Nathan’s pulse kickstarts in his chest.

Magnus presses their mouths together this time, pretense shattered and discarded, and Nathan feels the inhale hitch in his chest.

“Breathe,” Magnus murmurs against his mouth, and Nathan catches himself. He draws the air in, first through his nose and then his mouth, and he feels the tug of Magnus’ lips against his own.

Magnus is right. It is smoother this way. The smoke fills his lungs, and the warmth of Magnus’ mouth, the smell of weed and Magnus’ boozy breath, the muzzy alcohol haze that’s enveloped both of them, all of it seems deeper, softer, more alive and important.

Nathan pulls back. His eyes feel heavy, and Magnus is grinning at him.

“Think I’m feelin’ it,” Nathan mumbles.

And Magnus says, “Good,” and leans in again.


	2. con tenerezza [Magnus/Toki]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "throwing their arms around the other person’s neck, hugging them close before kissing them passionately on the lips" - Magnus/Toki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a spiritual sequel to [murine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761060) but it's not necessary to have read it first!
> 
> CW: none, really, but Magnus is a bit of a dick about Skwisgaar

The guitar is heavy in Magnus’ hands. It’s not that he hasn’t played recently. He has, and he’s still making music, though it takes a backseat to things like “having a day job” and “menial daily tasks he wouldn’t have to deal with if he had a cadre of servants to heed his every beck and call.”

Toki is watching him expectantly. “You gots some amps, right? Odderwise, can gets the Klokateers to get ones out of the bus.”

Magnus has to suppress a grimace at the idea of having anyone else in his space.

“Naw, I got a spare here. Not as fancy as the ones you guys use, but it’ll work.”

Toki looks helplessly at the amp that Magnus pulls out for him.

“Hasn’t… uh… sets up my own gear in a whiles. Usually has a crew to does it for me,” he says, and at least he has the wherewithal to look a little sheepish at this admission.

Magnus sighs and sets up the amp for him, adjusting the knobs and untangling a mess of cords, and when Toki strums experimentally on his own guitar, it sounds… not perfect, but good enough.

“So… what do you wanna play, kid?”

Toki considers, and then the one thing Magnus didn’t want to hear: “How abouts The Hammer?” The excitement in Toki’s voice is a cruel knife. “You wrotes that one, didn’ts you? Dat’s what Nat’an said.” He’s beaming at Magnus like he’s offered him a gift, as though he thinks Magnus parted with Dethklok on good terms, or that he _wants_ to talk about Dethklok, and Magnus has the brief, fleeting thought, _He really_ is _that stupid_ , followed by, _They didn’t tell him?_

“Y’sure you wanna play that one, kid?” Magnus says. His voice sounds strained even to him, but Toki barrels ahead as though he isn’t aware.

“Thinks it woulds be fun!”

“Right. But you play the rhythm part on that. And that’s… what I played too.”

“I knows Skwisgaar’s parts okay! Was in a Dethklok covers band.”

Magnus stares. “A… Dethklok cover band? How does…? You’re _in_ Dethklok, Toki.” _Yeah_ , Magnus thinks. _This kid really is an idiot._

“Was a hobby!” And then Toki’s face falls for a brief moment. “Was nice to feels important.”

And, well, that’s something Magnus can relate to. So Skwisgaar’s stomping all over Toki too, then. The wretchedness of Skwisgaar’s ego hasn’t been tempered over the years.

“Sure, kid. Sounds rough, bein’ in Skwisgaar’s shadow all the time,” Magnus says, adjusting one of the pegs of his guitar. When he looks up at Toki, his blue eyes are round and puppyish, and Magnus hates the stirring of pity in his chest.

He doesn’t _want_ to have anything in common with Toki. It’s not going to make any of this easier. _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_. But does that make Toki his friend? Magnus doesn’t know.

What he does know is that Toki’s already started to strum the first few chords of “The Hammer,” and Magnus can feel his shoulders tighten.

“Hold on, Toki. Let me get ready before you just… launch into it.”

“Just warmingks up!”

This time, he starts with Toki, and he’s following along at first, but it’s been years, and he doesn’t even have the _rights_ to this song anymore. There’s no reason to play it, to practice it, to even _think_ about it, unless he wants to waste the day stuck in a pit of self-loathing and vicious hatred.

His fingers feel thick and floppy and clumsy, and, not for the first time, he’s aware of his age relative to Toki and to the rest of Dethklok. Toki does an okay job of keeping up with Skwisgaar’s part, but even Magnus’ unpracticed ear can hear the hesitation, the clumsiness. But if Toki notices his own deficiencies, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s bouncing and swaying with the music, and it’s kind of hilarious to Magnus that Toki has that sort of self-confidence in the face of his own limited talent.

His replacement, he thinks, really isn’t that great.

And then they pass the bridge, where it starts to get more complex, and Magnus hits his first wrong note. And then another. And another. The hot flare of shame building in his chest is unspeakable. He tries to remember what's next. He’s gotten too caught up in watching Toki play, and in the sick churn of annoyance in his chest. He can hear Toki falter over his sloppy playing, and he tries to focus again on where he should be, but now they’re both jumbled. Magnus lets out a low growl of frustration and slaps his palm against the strings.

The discordant clang makes Toki stop playing entirely.

“Magnus?” Toki’s voice is hesitant.

“It’s… hold on. I’ve got it. It’s _fine_.” He rests his fingers back in the position he remembers. Even if muscle memory has failed him, he can still consciously _make_ himself play the right notes.

The tuning’s as he remembers it, the D-sharp and A-sharp, the natural C, G, and F. But his fingers won’t cooperate. He strums again and tries to remember the frets.

Toki’s watching him quietly, and then he reaches for Magnus’ left hand to try and curl Magnus’ finger over the fifth fret, to guide his grip, and Magnus jerks away with a hiss like Toki’s touch burns.

“Magnus…” Toki’s voice falters even as he says it.

Magnus angles himself away from Toki, still gripping the neck of his guitar, and hopes his hair falls over his face enough to obscure the rising flush in his weathered cheeks.

So this is it, then. This song, this one thing that he has left from his time in Dethklok, it no longer belongs to him--not legally, not musically, not even his own body remembers it. The loss feels like a hollowing out of some vital part of him.

The royalties he gets from it don’t even cover the rising costs of living anymore. Charles has fucked him over, to be sure, but it used to be that he could take consolation in the fact that the song had belonged to him by virtue of what he’d put of himself into it. Now there’s not even that. He can’t remember his own fucking song.

He wills away the stinging in his eyes. He hears Toki moving behind him, the soft shifting of cloth and then the solid sound of something being placed on top of the amp.

Toki’s weight is warm and solid and sudden against his back, and Toki’s arms drape over Magnus’ shoulders.

“Sorries,” Toki whispers into the mess of curls, into the back of Magnus’ neck. It’s another moment of surprising tenderness, and Toki keeps _doing_ this, keeps being nice to him, right when Magnus thinks he can find it in himself to really start hating Toki again.

If his shoulders shudder briefly at the touch, it’s fine. If Toki hugs him tighter, and if he leans back slightly into it, it’s an instinctive reaction to warmth. It’s weakness, to be sure, but… there’s no rule that says he has to hate every minute he spends with Toki.

And if he turns his head to say something once the dampness in his eyes recedes, and if Toki happens to lean in at the same time, and if their lips touch by accident, at first… well.

It’s unexpected, but not unwelcome.

And if Magnus’ grip loosens on his guitar, and if Toki’s mouth slackens lightly against his, and if he turns to press more fully into it, this little accident, and if Toki suddenly surges forward and clumsily moves into it and clacks their teeth together, well… Magnus is going to go along with it. 

He’ll figure out what the consequences of this decision might be later. For now there’s warmth, and comfort, and Toki’s weight against his back, and their lips pressed together in this frozen moment.

It’s been a long, long time.


	3. good men made perfect [Melmord/Amber]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leans himself further over the edge to look down at the water that laps at the dock’s wooden posts. It reflects the setting sun into his eyes, and the glare is harsh enough that it’s all he can see for a moment.
> 
> And suddenly he’s peering over another edge...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [agaricales' comic](https://trashvarietyhour.tumblr.com/post/637716489408004096/im-sure-youve-always-wanted-to-read-an-8-page), [offdensmith's fic](https://offdensmith.tumblr.com/post/640351091213598720/i-absolutely-loved-the-last-fic-you-wrote-for-my), and [lampmeeting's art](https://lampmeeting.tumblr.com/post/640503320131338240/how-do-you-do-it-seth-had-asked-him-once-do) and will probably not make sense unless you read/view all of them jsdkflsjdlfk

She looks so carefree there in the water, her hair pulled back and the loose strands clinging to her face, and she’s smiling and splashing one of her friends (the blonde one, whose name he can never remember and who he’s pretty sure hates him because of that). He’s got a cold beer in his hand, and the smell of the hot charcoals wafts from the deck grill, mixed with the sour salt smell of the kelp washed up from the ocean. The sun-warmed breeze makes his hair brush against his face and tickle his cheek. 

There’s a corps of security Klokateers surrounding them, and Seth is prodding at a package of ground beef with some grill tongs, but if Melmord turns his back to them and focuses entirely on Amber, he can kind of pretend they're not there. It’s self-indulgent, for sure, but the moments he gets to let his guard down are precious and few, and he’s going to savor this one for as long as he can. It’s not like he’s hurting anyone. He’s just... some average guy, at the beach with his gorgeous wife and their friends, celebrating the fading days of summer with one last get-together, and his torso’s not a leathery patchwork of scar tissue and grafts that itches no matter how much salve he rubs on it, and there’s not a service pistol tucked into the waistband of his shorts and—.

And then she calls up to him from where she’s treading the water by the edge of the dock, something like eight or nine feet down, and she says, “Mel, come on, jump in! Seth can handle the grill.” He leans himself further over the edge to look down at the water that laps at the dock’s wooden posts. It reflects the setting sun into his eyes, and the glare is harsh enough that it’s all he can see for a moment.

And suddenly he’s peering over another edge—the condensation-wet can is now a sweat-clenched hilt, and the red light of sunset becomes the glow of a dragon’s eyes, and the smoke from the grill is the steam from its nose, and he wants to yell at her to look out, to run, something, just _get away_ , because it’s going to come and it’s going to hit her and it’s _not going to stop_ —.

Seth’s hand slaps his shoulder. “Hey,” he says. “You heard the lady. Jump in. What my baby wants, she gets.” The expression on his face is a wry smirk, and he tugs the near-finished beer from Melmord’s hand and chugs the rest. Melmord gives him a wobbly smile and if Seth has noticed how Melmord’s hands were shaking when he took the beer from him, well, he’s at least got the decency not to say anything about it.

He unbuttons his shirt, gets three of eight done with his trembling fingers before he gives up and pulls the whole thing over his head. He hands his service pistol off to one of the security Klokateers. He draws his breath as deep as he can into his chest. He closes his eyes. He lets himself fall.

He hears her shriek as he hits the water, a pitchy, breathy scream of delight, and when he surfaces she’s right there. His hair is a mess, dripping salt water into his eyes, and his heart is going so hard he can feel the pulse in his throat and hear it in his head. She reaches out a hand, the glitter on her perfectly manicured nails catching and reflecting the cuprous and ochre tones of the sunset, and she brushes the hair out of his eyes. The fluttering in his chest is a mixture of fear and unholy tenderness.

“There,” she says, and smiles at him. “Now you’re perfect.”


End file.
